


Dribble

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil punishes Bard for helping the dwarves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dribble

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Established relationship: Thranduil 'punishes' his lover for helping dwarves [orgasm delay/denial]” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22202859#t22202859).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He gets regular reports—after a fashion. Feren will stroll up the winding steps, nod his head, and that will tell Thranduil all he needs to know: all is well. Or at least, tolerated. He’s sure things have become quite difficult for the man guarded in his cells, but that’s the nature of punishment. 

On the very rare occasion that Thranduil loses prisoners, he doesn’t take it well. He likes even less the knowledge that his lover’s aided them. He knows Bard’s heart is soft, _weak_ , but he should be loyal beyond that. Simply because he’s no subject of Thranduil’s doesn’t mean he shouldn’t obey without question. He even agreed—devoted lover as he is—that he owed some form of penance. For the most part, Thranduil tries to ignore that such a thing is happening. But eventually he becomes curious, _hungry_ , and the meager bow of his servants’ heads isn’t nearly enough. He rises from his throne, rearranges his robes simply to stall, and walks gracefully down the long passage, eventually leading underground. 

He passes Tauriel in his dungeons but says no word to her, and she tells him nothing back. It tells him there’s been no change. He crosses over the river that intersects the cells, and he walks to the highest one, around the corner and separated from the others: a special place that once held a Dwarven king, now just a broken man. The bars aren’t locked: no need with a bound prisoner. Bard hasn’t moved from where Thranduil left him, but he does lift his head at the coming steps. He doesn’t seem to have the strength to straighten, only slumps as low as the Elven ropes will allow. They bind his arms together tightly behind his back, wrists to ankles, his legs spread open. His clothes hang from him in rags, torn in certain places—there’s a gash in the fabric across his chest, revealing both rosy nipples, pebbled in the cold. His crotch is open, thighs cut across with ropes, cock bound securely from base to tip. His cheeks are still flushed—the way Thranduil first put him—and a barely perceptible shiver runs through him at the sight of Thranduil. There’s something about Bard _wrecked_ that makes Thranduil’s body stir—Bard’s just a fleeting mortal, but he’s beautiful in his debauchery, gorgeous in his ruin. Even his ragged stubble leaves him handsome, his crackled and parted lips calling out for Thranduil’s touch. It takes some effort to stand still, delaying for effect.

Not until Bard rasps, “ _Thranduil_ ,” does Thranduil step forward. He dips to run his fingers down Bard’s jaw, cupping his chin, using the grip to tilt him up. Bard runs his tongue along his lips and looks at Thranduil like a starving man. But he says nothing else: just waits for his master’s word.

Thranduil has half a mind to pet him, coo, _good boy_ , and take him for a walk back to Thranduil’s quarters. Instead, Thranduil asks, “Did you learn your lesson?” His tone is idle, warning. He could leave at any moment. 

Where Bard stood firm hours before, now he crumbles. He’s strong, impressively so, powerful and broad and taut, but he’s still a _man_. He winces like he feels his defeat, but he mutters bitterly, “I’ll never aide dwarves in escape from you again.”

He still would, if he felt it _right_. But he’s surrendered, and that’s enough for Thranduil to smirk. Thranduil lowers, his hand running down, long fingers splaying along Bard’s throat and ducking to his chest, shifting to grab one nipple. Thranduil pinches it in his forefinger and thumb, tugs it and twists, makes Bard hiss and gasp. He teases it a few times before he makes his way to the other, so they both flush the same. 

Bard arches up. Perhaps he expects his cock to be released, but it isn’t quite so easy. Thranduil’s fingers return, climbing higher, until he’s clasping Bard’s chin again and thrusting his fingers into Bard’s mouth, forcing it wider around the bulk of several fingers. Bard chokes but takes it, and Thranduil strokes his tongue, fucks his throat, makes his mouth water up like a promise Thranduil has no intention of keeping. When Thranduil’s fingers finally withdraw, only to make a mess across Bard’s cheek, Bard’s breath hitches. He hisses, “Thranduil, _please._ ”

Thranduil isn’t a cruel lover. Domineering, yes, but there are _always_ ways out, and he reminds Bard casually, “You know the word to end it.” Bard scowls, but Thranduil’s expression doesn’t change. Bard’s never said it yet, and sometimes it seems he never will, but a safety mechanism is necessary—Thranduil likes to play _rough_ , and he doesn’t bow to Bard’s stubbornness. He leaves Bard hard, aching, waiting for those certain syllables to bid the ropes released.

Bard only rasps, bitter but over-sexed and wanton, “ _Fine_ , don’t allow me my release, but at least _fuck me_ —I don’t care if you do it right here on the floor with my body bound to your whims, just _take_ me already.”

Thranduil chuckles, bends to kiss Bard’s forehead, and doesn’t oblige.

He does, however, kneel down. He takes a hold of Bard’s cock, made impossibly thicker by the girth of the rope. Even with their skin separated, Bard shivers and grunts, trying to buck forward but unable. Thranduil purrs almost sweetly, “If you had been good, you could be sheathing this in my body right now.” Bard _moans_ , twitching hot in Thranduil’s palm. Thranduil has to hold his chuckle back, murmuring, “Instead, your pleasure will be somewhat... delayed.”

Teeth grit, Bard growls, “You’ve left me here for hours.”

“Tauriel will hear your cries should you have need of anything,” Thranduil answers dismissively. Indeed, she knows their word, and even without that, she’s brought him water and checked his muscles, shifting the ropes every so often so as not to bruise. Bard doesn’t seem particularly grateful, even though he first admitted, with lust filled eyes and tented trousers, that he deserved to be _punished_.

He asks, clearly frustrated, “When will I be forgiven?”

Thranduil lets his fingers fall. He rises slowly to his feet, offhandedly deciding, “Tonight. ...perhaps.” Bard _glares_ , though Thranduil sees the desire all behind it. It is a long time to wait for a mortal, but Thranduil is arguably wicked, and he’ll push his lover as far as Bard will go.

He leaves, clicking the door back into place, and he’s just turned out of sight when he hears one whispered, telltale word: “ _Dragonfire._ ”


End file.
